


Just an Everyday

by cedarcliffe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Incest, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarcliffe/pseuds/cedarcliffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heat and fight is in them like the sound of each other’s voices, and they love it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just an Everyday

Sam is bucking and wriggling beneath his brother, Dean’s arms wrapped full around him, both of them a mess of limbs and laughter and snarls of outrage as dirt gets into their clothes and their eyes and their hair. But they don’t stop, won’t stop, just keep yanking one another back and around, tumbling over and up, fumbling for handholds in shirthems and beltloops and sweat-sticky necks, blood-flushed faces. Heat and fight is in them like the sound of each other’s voices, and they love it. They need it like they need salt on their windowsills and silver knives in their boots; for the bitter bite and the religion, the sanctity and safety, the immutable knowing that family is Sam and family is Dean and family is always, forever.

Dean’s arms crossing over Sam’s waist, Sam’s nails digging pale crescents into the flesh of Dean’s shoulders, Dean’s fingers dipping into the waistband of Sam’s jeans. It’s a fight, or it’s a dance. Or it’s Tuesday and dad isn’t home.

The nape of Sam’s neck is salt and dust, gritty and sharp on Dean’s tongue. The curl of his spine tastes cleaner. Sam shivers, tries to turn, squirming and shaking and grasping and gasping, tugs and stretches the collar of Dean’s shirt. Saying something, probably nothing, maybe everything.

Sam’s brother is a force of nature, a force of life. He’s absolutely vital, absolute vitality, and his mouth is a brand of ownership across the blades of Sam’s shoulders. Dean’s hands play a silent tune in the dips of his hips, thumbs hooking around his waist, palms hot, pulse thrumming, and Sam arches up into him, curves like a bow with Dean heavy and hard on his back, arms trembling. Now it’s definitely a fight, Dean’s thighs clamping onto his legs and his hands shoving low, and Sam hisses and freezes and drops onto his elbows while Dean sucks patterns into his ribs. It’s both too much and not enough out in the relative open of the high-fenced backyard, and Sam is a Yes wrapped in a No wrapped in a God, fuck, Dean.

Then Dean is heaving him to weak knees and scrabbling feet, stuck a jarring halfway between dragging and carrying him, and when they stumble through the squealing back door it’s dark inside, and cool, and they track heavy, overlapping prints of pale dirt through the kitchen and hallway and bedroom and sheets.


End file.
